


The Fight Store

by Mithen



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Con Artists, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: In a small town before the Great War, a group of fighters comes to put on a show.





	The Fight Store

_" **The Fight Store** : This scam requires a roper or two, an inside man, a "doctor," two boxers, and other sundry folks." --The Big Con: Great Hoaxes, Frauds, Grifts, and Swindles in American History, by Nate Hendley_

It started with an Irishman. Sure, Irishmen weren’t that uncommon, even in a small town like Springfield before the Great War, but this one was a big guy, muscular. He blew in on the midnight train and settled down in the saloon, drinking beer and making friends and complaining about his job. He worked for a traveling fighting show, apparently, where people could place wagers on wrestling matches--very hush-hush, he said, putting a finger to his lips, what with the laws against betting on fighting and all. The good folk of Springfield nodded sagely and solemnly promised not to report him to the authorities, since he seemed like a decent joe. Just like them, he hated his boss, he hated his job. He listened to them complain about their own jobs, clicking his tongue sympathetically, and bought everyone a round of drinks.

“I’m here to drum up excitement for their stupid fight,” he sighed to anyone who would listen. “I mean, I guess it’s _some_ fun to watch guys beat each other up, right?”

The townsfolk, who had little entertainment beyond gossip and the occasional husking bee, secretly thought it sounded very exciting indeed. The word got out among certain circles about the match, to be held in a barn outside town. No one talked about it openly, and no one talked with the lawmen anywhere around, but excitement was building. 

The Irishman lost a little bit of esteem when he became fast friends with the owner of the town bank, the one who’d driven some of the local farmers to bankruptcy. But he couldn’t be expected to know how much the man was despised, after all, so they cut him a bit of slack as he drank beer and laughed with the wealthiest and most hated man in Springfield. He was a good guy, friendly. A bit simple. Trustworthy, if just a little too trusting himself. Just an ordinary working man.

The show arrived the night before with the suppertime train, and everyone got a chance to see the two fighters who were going to wrestle tonight. They were two Canadians: one of them built like a barrel, with flatly murderous eyes under a beetling brow; the other a more slender man with long arms and a dancing way of walking, wearing a flat cap on coppery curls. They jostled each other as they got off the train, looking like they might come to blows then and there, and the locals who had assembled to see them arrive pretended not to be gawking. The murder-eyed one, Owens, sneered at everyone; the redhead, Zayn, smiled and tapped a few staring children on the nose, beaming at them.

They split up to stay at two different hotels, since it was clear they couldn’t be in the same building without attacking each other, and the people of Springfield solemnly agreed that there was no way that cheerful Zayn boy could possibly hold out against the Owens brute. A few folks argued that maybe he could hold his own, that speed and agility counted for a lot. Things were buzzing with excitement. But not everyone was happy.

That night, the Irishman showed up in the saloon and slammed a couple of beers angrily, then proceeded to rant about how the boss had arrived in town and was back to treating him like crap. “Treats me like I’m his fucking servant, I tell you,” he fumed, sitting down in a booth across from the banker. “Well! If he knew what I could tell everyone--”

His eyes went large and he covered his mouth with his hand with a guilty hiccup. 

“Shouldn’t have said anything,” he said quickly, looking around to make sure no one but the banker had heard him. “Mum’s the word,” he said with a sickly smile, but the banker, sensing an opportunity, pressed him and harried him and plied him with drinks until he reluctantly relented.

“See, the thing is, it’s all fixed,” he said, shaking his head sadly at the shocked expression on the banker’s face. “It’s a con, my friend. That brute, Owens, he looks like he can’t possibly lose, right? But he’s going to eat the pin, they’re going to take everyone’s earnings and flee town. They’re in cahoots.” He looked mournful. “Oh geez, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Sensing an opportunity, the banker leaned across the table toward his friend, keeping his voice low. “Look,” he said. “The odds are going to be against the Zayn kid. So if I bet a lot on him…”

“You could clean house,” said the Irishman with begrudging admiration. “That’s a really clever idea. I never would’a thought of it, but I guess that’s why you’re a banker and I’m just a drifter. And it would serve them right.” He smiled mischievously. “My god, do you think you’ve got the stones to try and pull that off?”

And the banker, puffing himself up a bit at having impressed such a rough and dangerous sort, assured him that he did indeed have the stones--and the brains, as well. “I’ll even give you a cut of the winnings, as thanks for the tip,” he told the Irishman.

“Would you _really_?” his gullible friend said, beaming. “Why, that’d be just grand, pal. Just grand.”

* * *

That night the barn was packed with respectable Springfield citizens: teachers, farmers, grocers, even the pastor was there: nervous at the risk of being caught breaking the law, but unable to resist placing a few furtive bets. The bookie, an elegant, skeletal man with ornate tattoos, took their bets in stoic silence--almost all of them for Owens, although a few people murmured that it would be a shame to see that nice Zayn boy beaten _too_ badly. When the banker placed his huge bet on Zayn, the bookie’s eyebrows flicked upward and he gave the banker an almost nervous look that just confirmed the fix was in for Zayn. So the banker was feeling pretty smug when the wrestlers took their places. The referee, a handsome balding man with a vague Continental accent, checked them both for illegal weapons and then declared the match begun.

Zayn was overmatched right from the start, it was obvious as the huge Owens threw him across the makeshift, sawdust-strewn ring. Zayn’s arms and legs splayed out in pain and he flopped around on the floor, prompting murmurs of sympathy from the more soft-hearted townsfolk. The more mercenary among them, however, yelled at Owens to finish him off fast, and Owens cracked his knuckles and moved to oblige them with a sadistic grin on his face. Zayn managed to dodge his haymaker and grab him into some implausibly spinning move that left Owens flat on his back. Zayn staggered to his feet to wave his hands triumphantly, but only for a moment before Owens lunged up and dragged him into a headlock that soon had Zayn gasping for air as he was throttled mercilessly.

It was all so seamless that the audience never for a moment suspected that they were working together, but the banker, watching with a cynical eye, caught a few quick gestures, the meaningful eye contact that telegraphed moves. They were clever, all right, but he was wise to their tricks. Soon Zayn was going to stage an implausible comeback and triumph, and then most of the good people of Springfield would be out of their money, and he would be much, much richer. Any minute now…

Owens was breathing heavy, spittle flying as he struggled to finish Zayn off. Zayn smiled at the audience, a beautiful bright smile, and aimed a dancing kick at Owens’s head. Owens intercepted the kick, laughing cruelly, and scooped him into the air, then caught him out of it, smashing him to the floor.

And everything went wrong.

At the impact, Zayn made a sudden, surprised sound that broke off into a hideous gurgle. He staggered to his feet, looking shocked, and opened his mouth as if to say something to Owens--but all that came from his mouth was blood, pouring down his chin and onto his splayed fingers. He stumbled forward, groping at Owens, whose face had suddenly lost all its brutality into horror and fear. Zayn went to his knees, one bloody hand reaching up to leave a scarlet imprint on Owens’s shirt, and then fell heavily on his face, twitching all over. A hideous rattling breath echoed through the suddenly-silent barn, and finally Zayn went still.

“Sami?” said Owens, sounding abruptly very young and frightened. “ _Sami?_ ”

The Swiss referee rushed forward, kneeling beside the unmoving wrestler. A pool of blood was slowly spreading beneath Zayn’s head as he took his wrist between his fingers, waiting.

Finally, he looked up at Owens. “Kevin,” he said. “He’s dead.”

“ _No!_ ” howled Owens, and his anguish and terror were so palpable that it seemed to infect everyone in the barn. A sudden commotion broke out as everyone realized that this meant--a dead body meant police, and that meant anyone caught here betting on a wrestling match, especially a wrestling match turned fatal, was going to be in a _lot_ of trouble. There was a sudden mass break for the door, nearly a stampede. 

The banker took one look at the dead body lying on the floor and fled with the rest of them, abandoning his friend the Irishman. Later, it would occur to him that he’d left all his money with the bookie, but to be honest he was so relieved to not be caught at the scene of a murder that it seemed a small price to pay.

No one paid any further heed to Kevin Owens, who had dropped to his knees beside Sami Zayn and gathered the bloody body of his opponent into his arms, weeping so violently that it made Zayn’s corpse tremble as well. It was a macabre effect, almost as if the dead body were convulsed in giggles, but no one was inclined to stay and look as they fled into the night.

* * *

The long, low whistle of the midnight train heading west from Springfield was still hanging in the air as a lone figure sprinted across a cornfield. The moonlight touched his copper hair with silver as he raced to intercept the accelerating train. For a moment it looked like he might not make it, and then someone leaned out of the boxcar to seize his flailing hand and haul him into the train.

“Someday you’re going to miss the train and I’m heading on to the next town without you,” Kevin grumbled as Sami threw himself down on the straw-covered floor, panting.

“Oh, you’d hop off and wait for me and you know it,” Sami said, breathless and laughing.

Kevin rolled his eyes but didn’t contradict him, either. “No one at the orphanage spotted you, at least?”

“They never do,” Sami said, throwing out his chest a bit.

“Yeah, you’re so stealthy as you give away half of our take,” Kevin said, but there was an affectionate gleam in his eye.

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, listening to the _clacking_ of the wheels. “Everyone else got clear?” Sami asked, a little sleepily.

“No problems, other than Graves trying to take more than his share of the cut, the bastard.”

“He always does that.”

“Cesaro and Sheamus said they’d meet us in a few days at the next town. It’s your turn to be the referee while they wrestle.”

“How’s about you die next time it’s our turn?” Sami asked, pulling a face. “I hate getting chicken blood in my mouth. Why am I always the one who dies?”

“No one dies better than you,” Kevin said admiringly.

Sami chuckled. “But I want a chance to mourn extravagantly over your lifeless body,” he said.

“Sorry, no one’s ever buying me as the scrappy underdog,” said Kevin.

“I guess,” Sami sighed. “Maybe I’ll wear the mask next town.”

“El Generico dies pretty well too,” Kevin agreed.

Sami beamed at him, brighter than the moonlight, full of proud delight. “No one murders me better than you,” he said.

And so they counted their money and went over the match and planned the next one, and the train jolted onward through the night, heading for the next town full of marks and the next show.


End file.
